


The art of dragon-taming

by Hyoushin



Series: blue winter roses [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Kisses, More Jonrya, Not Canon Compliant, POV First Person, POV Sam, Sam is a Saint, sam is a good bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-09 23:32:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12286530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hyoushin/pseuds/Hyoushin
Summary: Sam treats an injured dragon and witnesses a secret.





	The art of dragon-taming

**Author's Note:**

> **Originally written for TrashKanForLife** and their prompt.
> 
>  
> 
> This is a bit experimental. 1st person pov, something I don't usually do. Oh and there's Sam. The sweetest guy ever.

 

_An excerpt from the old private writings of Maester Samwell:_

**The art of dragon-taming**

**(Or the intricacies of draconic healing and supplementary matters).**

 

Here, within the Northlands, a creature born of fire and blood.             

The Dragon Queen had called it _Rhaegal_ in her letter to Lord Eddard Stark. The opportunity to meet a dragon was something I, a simple disciple striving to be a Maester, didn’t think I’d ever have. But Lord Stark had permitted me to tag along with Jon, and the small party he selected, to go in search of the dragon. Sightings of Rhaegal flying on northern skies and reports from Castle Black had led us all into the wild. Traces in the form of blackened trees and scorched animal carcasses, on the northwestern edge of the Haunted Forest, had signaled the right track to follow.  

Our search concluded upon finding a cavern commodious enough, I supposed, for an injured dragon sheltering from the piercing, icy gusts of the Frostfangs. We dismounted at the yawning mouth of the cavern and left our horses with a couple of trusted guards, while Jon, his cousin Lady Arya from the Stark line, the wildlings—and our guides for these parts—Tormund Giantsbane and Val, and I, were to enter. 

Trepidation was making my hands tremble as I lifted my lighted torch over my head. Mounting anxiety bathed me in sweat as I gazed into the darkness; it was daunting in its apparent infinity.

“We ought to be silent and careful, we don’t need a startled dragon to set us on fire,” Jon advised. “I’ll approach Rhaegal first and assess the damage. Understood?”

Everyone nodded their assent, and soon, as we stepped into the cavern, its darkness engulfed us entirely. It was less cold in here than outside and somewhat humid as well. Fumes, barely perceptible at the cavern’s mouth, became denser deep within the lair Rhaegal had made its own.

“You all right, Sam?” asked Jon, in a soft whisper. He walked awhile beside me, looking at me with understanding eyes. “You didn't need to do this. Most Maesters wouldn't dare.”

“I—I know, I really wanted to see it though, a—a dragon, this might be my only chance. Maester Luwin's too old and I don’t—don't want to be like—like most Maesters anyway.” I cursed myself for stammering out my answer. The fear I had been nursing flowed through my words, heightening my voice. To my ears, it sounded brittle and strident. I was afraid and I couldn’t even hide it. 

I lowered my head, ashamed. I looked up again, though, when I felt a hand on my back providing comfort. The yellow light of the torches illuminated our faces, so I could catch the smile Jon directed at me. “It’s fine, Sam,” he told me, conveying reassurance in that easy and open manner of his. “Believe it or not, I’m afraid too. I’m hoping Rhaegal will recognize me, even though I’m not a pure-blooded Targaryen. The Queen affirmed it will in her letter but I’m still doubtful.”

I glanced at the others. Tormund and Val had strained expressions on their faces, I noticed tension in their gaits and the glint of sweat beading on their pale faces. Arya had been clearly fascinated by the prospect of meeting a dragon, since the very start of their trek. And although that fascination hadn’t waned, there was a slight rigidity in her usual nimble bearing. Somehow, my observations and Jon’s confession lessened my fear a little, giving me the strength to say, “I believe it will recognize you, Jon.”

Jon looked at me, smiled again, and went on ahead of me. I watched his back getting farther away, guiding us with a firm stride into the bowels of Rhaegal’s lair.  All of us, in spite of our shared uneasiness, followed him closely. We all stopped walking, however, when John slowed to a halt before us. With an upraised hand, Jon made a quick gesture to us that meant _do not move,_ and continued onwards only to halt once again.

“We’re here,” Jon murmured.

In the next instant, from the black depths of the cavern, a pair of eyes emerged, their luminosity hacking shadows in half. Its eyes looked like crystals, colored in ever-shifting shades of yellow-gold and emerald-green. His massive snout was the only visible part of him as the rest of its body remained swathed in the surrounding black.

There was no doubt that the dragon was awake. Its attention on Jon, officially from House Targaryen _,_ who was still and hardly breathing, but resolute before the yellow-green stare, waiting for recognition and acceptance.

I felt as though I had sunken into the haziness of a dream.

I had listened to the stories like any other wide-eyed child, and when I became older, I devoured ancient books, scrolls, and journals dedicated to the subject. But all the knowledge I had accumulated didn’t prepare me for what my eyes were seeing. Because a long time ago, the dreams, the fantasies, the songs stored in my childish mind had coalesced, assuming the shape of a legendary being which once existed in our world. What my imagination had created then was crushed by the authenticity found in an indisputable fact. And it was an indisputable fact that I was seeing an authentic _dragon_.

 _It has to recognize Jon,_ I thought. _It must._

When several moments dragged by in which Rhaegal seemed to appraise the man before him without turning him into a pile of ash, I sighed with relief. But did I jinx our chances? For Jon had to withdraw as fast as he could to escape the jaws of the dragon. They snapped at him twice and I could glimpse an array of jagged teeth; their sharpness an aspect I forced myself to stop dwelling on. With considerable resolve, I also effaced the errant thought that I could be a very tasty prey.

I focused on Rhaegal again, and it seemed by my humble estimation, bewildered?

 _Could it be Jon’s mixed blood?_ I presumed. Rhaegal still didn’t try to burn him to a crisp, however, so that was a good sign. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Arya advancing to the dragon as she held her torch aloft, its light evidencing a captivation stronger than fear on her face. Jon was distracted so he didn’t notice her until she arrested the dragon’s attention for herself.

Jon turned to look at her in alarm. “Arya, what are you doing?” was his frantic whisper.

“Really, Jon, I’ll be fine,” she breathed, waving away his concern.

Rhaegal’s gaze settled on Arya, scrutinizing her as it did with Jon. Then, the dragon huffed softly, and the pressure, rooted in the danger the creature emitted by nature, decreased to my astonishment, but it never faded entirely.

For a reason that eluded me, the dragon developed an interest in Arya Stark.

Together with a mode of treatment, directions for the concoction of a salve, which would speed the healing of Rhaegal’s injury, had been enclosed in Queen Daenerys’ letter. Thus, I entered the cavern the next day, carrying a small pot in my hands. Arya and Jon my only other two companions, because unfortunately, the dragon comported itself rather disagreeably towards most of us, with the exception of Arya and Jon on a smaller degree.

I’d been conjecturing that Jon’s mixed inheritance was behind the dragon’s unsettledness in his presence, being a Targaryen and a Stark besides would confuse it, but it wouldn’t explain its nigh quiescence around Arya—for there was not a drop of Targaryen blood in her veins. Perhaps there was something about Arya that reminded Rhaegal of his mother. I would only know for sure until our return to Winterfell. There I would be able to enquire into this curiosity at length.

In the meantime, we had decided that Arya would entertain the dragon with food, and Jon would be with me applying the salve on its wound. The affected area was across his left flank, near its front left appendage. I winced at the angry slash, it was long and deep. I considered that if this was the byproduct of a sibling’s quarrel, I didn’t want to imagine what wounds a real fight would carve.

I poured the substance over the wound, careful and meticulous in my ministrations. The dragon was not so pleased by this, given by its rumble. Thankfully, Arya's touch and the food diverted its attention from us. Jon, on the other hand, had an air of impatience about him as he surveyed their interaction.

To the detriment of my nerves and general mental soundness, this process we had to repeat for three days while spending the night within the boundaries of Rhaegal's lair.

The fourth morn was upon us when I woke. The others were asleep. I stood with the intention of relieving myself by the trees outside. As I reached the threshold, though, I happened upon a hushed conversation:

“Jon, you’re ridiculous. If I didn’t know better I’d think you’re jealous,” Arya said, muffling her laugh with a hand.  “A dragon, Jon. A _dragon_.”

“Can’t you blame me? What if it mistakes you for the Queen and decides to, I don’t know, keep you.” Jon frowned. Clearly, the notion had been stewing in his mind and spreading apprehension.

“He wouldn’t confuse me for his royal mother. Last I remember I didn’t have silver hair.” The glow in her eyes softened her visage and exposed a lure otherwise veiled by her unconventional deportment.

“Oh, so it’s a _he_ now. Right. Great that he's taken a fancy to you. Maybe you’d like to visit Dragonstone on his back,” Jon muttered. There was annoyance in his stance, but also a marked intensity reserved for the girl he had in his arms.

Years ago, when I had been just a new arrival at Winterfell, I had suspected that Jon’s attachment to Arya wasn’t merely due to her likeness to his mother Lady Lyanna, King Rhaegar’s first wife, who had passed away from an untreatable illness. Here I confirmed that there had always been more to it—emotions which were not confined to familiarity and partiality.

“Gods, Jon!” Arya’s shoulders were quaking, the effort to contain her laughter becoming a difficulty. “He’s injured and he misses his mother, who’s doing who knows what.”

“Aunt Daenery’s in Sunspear still with Uncle Viserys, attempting a match with someone Dornish and important. While Father remains in King’s Landing handling some ongoing treaty….” Jon sighed, and then continued, a tinge of irritation in his words, “She should be doing this with her own Maester, not you. It’s dangerous.”

“Please, Jon.” Arya leveled a look at him that could wither leagues upon leagues of greenery. “You should be more worried about Sam.”

“I—of course I worry about him too—but it is _not_ the same,” he countered weakly, a hint of pink in his cheeks.

Arya raised an eyebrow. “And why would that be?” she teased.

“You know why,” was his curt response, not wanting to give in just yet.

“Do I? Explain it to me,” she demanded. The smile stretching her red lips an enticement that came upon Jon like a thrust from a blade.  
  
Jon’s laughter was muted by the wind’s howling. “You are unbelievable.” He enfolded her as tight as he could without hurting her. Then, he leaned forward to press their lips together. They moved as one, comfortable with each other, unmindful of the cold and the passage of time. Both ensconced in the space created by themselves as the kiss seemed to prolong itself indefinitely; communicating, even in the rising hastiness of their passion, between loving caresses and encouraging sounds, what couldn’t be said out loud.

 _At least not yet._ My embarrassment finally unfroze my feet and I spun around. The urges of my body had mysteriously left me for the moment, so I scuffled back to my furs, avoiding the sprawl of bodies on the ground. I sat and reclined against the stone. Our mission here was complete, Rhaegal’s recovery a certain eventuality. A raven would have to be sent as soon as we reached home.

More plans and tasks and ideas flitted across my mind. Before long, I heard light footsteps, giggles, and whispers. 

I hid a grin and determined to keep their secret. 

 


End file.
